Draw a Circle: That's Your Soul
by Rainy Meadows
Summary: People are bigger on the inside, metaphorically speaking. Unfortunately this means that there's more room for scars. A series of short one-shots exploring the possible psychological aftermath to The Hetalian Job. Fluff alert. Possible pairings. Second in the SoulHeta series - requires prior knowledge of The Hetalian Job, as there are some major spoilers here.
1. Admittance

If there hadn't been any major tragedies (say, no motorway pile-ups or no public shootouts in some city square somewhere) then at some point in the early hours of the morning, the hospital lost its business of the daytime and fell quiet. Anybody who was awake would say that it was eerie or frightening, but for doctors and nurses and patients alike, the peace was well appreciated. It meant that everybody could finally get some much-needed sleep.

However, it could naturally be expected that some of the patients, the ones who had been through horrible and traumatic events to land themselves there in the first place, would have some trouble drifting off to Dreamland. Especially those who had already been through more than any person could bear beforehand.

Italy awoke with a start.

The ward was dark, but far from pitch black: the lights in the corridor were still on and leaked light into the room, casting stretched shadows across the wall and floor. He could make out the hunched shapes of some of the other patients who were in the beds near his, but couldn't make out any specific details on any of them apart from that they were all still asleep and probably would be until the sun poked its head over the horizon.

He was glad his bed was the one nearest the window, even if it meant he had to look out at that freaky sniggering moon with the blood dripping out of its teeth. Had he been able to stand, he would have opened it and leaned out to feel the cool night air on his face.

But as it was, he was stuck with his legs in the air. Nothing to do but sleep and wait until Germany came to visit him in the morning. He didn't want to think very much because he knew that no matter what he did, no matter how much he tried to avoid it, his mind would return to the nightmarish events of a month and a half ago.

At least he was getting out soon.

He closed his eyes and tried to get back to sleep, hoping against hope that he wouldn't have any more dreams tonight.

* * *

_He had to do this. If he didn't, he would never be forgiven. It was painful – perhaps the most painful thing he had ever done – but the alternative was much worse._

_Italy straightened his tie and jacket. Even with what he was about to do, the things he was about to say, Germany would still complain if he allowed himself to be untidy in his presence._

_He clenched and unclenched his fists, cursing himself for his persistent lack of courage._

"_Italy?"_

_He was here._

_Italy didn't turn to look at him. This was hard enough as it was without having to see the look on his face._

"_Italy, I received your message," said Germany, who was probably wondering why his friend was standing so stiffly and refusing to turn to face him. "Now would you mind telling me what this is all about?"_

_After a small and fearful gulp, he took a deep breath._

"_I'm not your friend anymore, Germany," he said._

_Without looking, he could tell that the larger man was confused._

"_What are you talking about?" he demanded. "Are you not part of the Axis Powers-?"_

"_No," said Italy. "No, I-I'm not."_

_Keeping his eyes closed to avoid looking into Germany's, he turned around to face him._

"_I don't want to fight with you anymore," he said. "I don't want to be part of the Axis anymore. Tomorrow I'm going to go and join the Allies, and I'm sorry, but there's nothing you can do to talk me out of it, and I don't ever want to see you again."_

_He felt himself seized by the shoulders as Germany began to shake him furiously._

"_What the hell are you talking about?!" he almost yelled. "You are part of the mighty Axis who will dominate the entirety of the world once this war is finished! Do you not want to be one of the most powerful nations on the face of the earth? And you promised that you were my friend and that you were going to stay my friend forever! Have you forgotten about that?!"_

"_I could-"_

"_What? You could what? What is the meaning of this, Italy? Tell me!"_

_Italy sniffed. It was taking all of his self-control to avoid bawling his eyes out._

"_I could never be friends with some potato-sucking kraut," he choked._

_Germany gasped in shock and horror. Italy wished he had never been born as he shook off the larger man's grip and turned his face away._

"_I'm sorry, Germany," he said. "Goodbye."_

_And with that, he walked away, trying hard and still failing to hide the shaking of his shoulders as he quietly sobbed._

"_Fine!" he heard Germany shout. "Leave! Go and join the enemy! I do not care one little bit; I could find a better ally than you any day! Maybe one who isn't a snivelling coward who constantly stinks of garlic and cries like a baby over every tiny little thing! So go! But don't you dare think I'll come looking for you once this war is over!"_

_Italy didn't look back. Not even once._

* * *

"Italy?"

For a moment he feared that he had returned to the moment; the moment he had torn his own heart out of his chest, metaphorically speaking. But as he opened his eyes and blinked in the suddenly bright light, he realised that while it was still daytime, the air smelt of soap and hospital floor disinfectant and he was lying down on clean sheets of purest white.

And somebody was holding his hand. Not tightly, but securely – tenderly, almost as a lover would.

The fingers under his own were familiar, dry yet soft, gentle and yet strong. He rubbed them with his thumb, thankful for the familiar feeling of protection and peace that they brought, and looked up into the bright blue eyes of the man to whom the hands belonged.

"_Guten morgen_, Italy," said Germany with a faint smile. "Did you sleep well?"

"Ve~ I slept okay, I guess," Italy replied. "I had a really strange dream though."

"A dream?"

"_Si_."

"What about?"

Italy gulped, suddenly frightened about admitting the truth.

"Do you remember the day, back in the Second World War, when I told you that I was going to leave you and go and join the Allies?" he asked.

"How could I forget?" Germany asked. "How could I forget the day my only friend told me that he never wanted to see me again? You betrayed me. Double crossed me. I still don't know why you would do such a thing."

"Ve~ please don't be too angry at me, Germany!" cried Italy. "Please, try to understand, it was my b- my boss. He got really scared and he wanted me to defect and join the other side, but to tell you the truth I really didn't want to because I didn't like them very much and I really didn't want to leave Germany and-"

He was silenced by a gentle finger resting upon his blubbering lips.

"I would only be a fool if I held a grudge," said Germany. "Especially against such a person as you."

Italy heaved a sigh of relief, and as he gazed into the big man's brilliant blue eyes, he wondered if his heart was going to burst out of his chest.

"_Grazie_," he said. "You know, for so long I was afraid that you didn't-"

"You were afraid," Germany interrupted as he lowered his finger. "I suppose I should not have been surprised when you chose to leave me, but could you not have found a less painful way to break off our alliance?"

Italy's smile faltered and quickly fell.

"I was told that if I made you hate me, it wouldn't hurt as much to leave you," he explained in a quiet voice which was cracked around the edges. "If I made you angry at me, you wouldn't miss me and I wouldn't miss you as much as I would if I'd tried to be nice. Ve~ you don't still hate me, do you?"

Germany gave his hand a light squeeze.

"I never could," he replied. "I'm not that kind of person. By the way, the doctors tell me that you will be discharged the day after tomorrow."

"Ve~ fantastic!" Italy cried happily. "I just hope they don't notice your-"

"Sir?"

Germany looked back at the doctor who was tapping on his shoulder, clearly already knowing what he was about to say.

"Sir, would you allow us to examine your back?" he asked.


	2. Yin-Yang

It happened again.

This made it forty-two. It was the forty-second time in a row that he had woken up in the middle of the night, face and body coated liberally in cold sweat which trickled down into the bedsheets, panting as though he had just run a marathon. He would never admit it to himself or anybody else, but he was chilled to his core every time.

Forty _damn_ two…

Romano sat up in his bed, rubbing the freezing fluid from his damp forehead. He had been hoping that since he was no longer alone in the house, maybe the nightmares would finally come to an end, but no. It was to no avail. Another idea of his had fallen flat, and he was stupid to expect anything else.

Was Veneziano the same?

No, he couldn't be. He wasn't the one who was locked up in a dungeon for five whole days without any food or water or contact with the outside world, neither was he lured to a forest in the pretence of meeting a friend and then hunted like some common animal. Romano wasn't an animal; he was a human being, dammit!

And a nation too, but that was beside the point.

He knew there was no way he would get back to sleep if he was on his own, so he dragged himself out of bed and staggered dizzily to the door.

His footsteps were the only sounds in the whole house – a soft thump of his toes on the floorboards which creaked slightly beneath his weight. Outside was a true cacophony of nature: a full orchestra of crickets chirruping and owls hooting and perhaps even the occasional blood-chilling bark of a fox, but inside this building, everything was utterly silent. Silent as the grave, a poet might say, with not a sound in the world to fracture the hush.

He slowly pushed open the door to his brother's room, thankfully avoiding any conspicuous squeaking, and paused for a brief moment.

Veneziano was dozing peacefully, hugging his pillow, a thin strand of drool stretching from the corner of his mouth to the surface of the soft cushion. He barely moved beyond the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he quietly breathed, for once not snoring or snuffling or mumbling in his sleep. Romano only wished that his little brother could be this quiet all the time.

He hadn't put his wheelchair aside. Just left it sitting in the middle of the room.

It had only been two days since the smaller man was discharged from the hospital in Verona, and already he was starting to get on Romano's nerves. Due to his legs not being healed yet, not to mention being told to use his left arm as little as possible, he had to go everywhere in a wheelchair and needed someone to push him. As the elder brother, it was only natural that this responsibility fell to Romano, who was already sick and tired of having to take his little brother _everywhere_.

'If he loves that damn potato sucking bastard so much, why doesn't he get _him_ to push him around all the time?' he thought as he moved the wheelchair to the other side of the bed and out of his way.

Then he remembered.

A couple of days before Veneziano was due to be discharged, someone had noticed the wounds on the potato bastard's back poking out of his collar and demanded that they be examined. The stupid idiot had made such a fuss trying to escape the people who were trying to help him that the wounds were accidentally reopened and he lost so much blood that he needed a transfusion and was probably still shut up in that place. The thought of the damn kraut holed up in a hospital bed was, Romano had to admit, a satisfying one.

But now he was stuck with his dumbass brother. His dumbass brother who was, apparently, a hero.

Careful not to awaken his sleeping sibling, Romano lifted the covers and gently slipped into bed next to the smaller man, although he probably wouldn't have woken up if the bed was on fire.

It definitely was _not_ the face of a hero.

He refused to believe it. Romano refused to believe that this little idiot could possibly have stormed a castle all on his own, which may have been a lie if it was true and those guns could turn into people, and also killed the… what was it that reaper brat had called it? A kee-shun? Kee-shin? Whatever, it was a dumb name.

Unfortunately, there was definitely some kind of change in the man. He wasn't anywhere near as whiny as he had been when he left to 'buy more tomatoes' (which was, in hindsight, quite obviously a total lie) and the gaps between his eruptions of tears had gone from several minutes to several days. Sometimes he could go a whole week without as much as a mild whimper. He had spent more and more time going around with his eyes open, which somehow made his near-constant smiles seem less stupid and absent-minded and more honestly happy. He was less like Italy Veneziano and more like… someone almost _normal_.

And when he wasn't smiling – a rare occasion, one of the few things that hadn't changed since the Atlantis Incident – there was something in his eyes. It was unnerving to look at and almost painful to feel, and it was very, very dark. Like a demon or a monster or Turkey, and it hid itself, waiting for the little idiot to get angry. What annoyed Romano the most was that he was apparently the only one who had noticed. Maybe nobody else had realised thanks to that damn reaper brat, but since he had come back there was something horribly WRONG with his brother.

What was that thing the noodle nutjob sometimes talked about? Yin and Yang? Two different halves, each containing a small piece of each other. The white was good, but contained a little bit of bad. The black was bad, but contained a little bit of good.

Romano was damned before he thought of himself as a bad person, but if his brother was good, it seemed that the darkness had finally begun to show itself. And it had only taken one and a half thousand years to appear.

The younger of the two brothers heaved a heavy sigh and his eyes slowly flickered open, focusing on the new occupant of the bed. The inner demon was still sleeping. For now.

"Romano, what…" he mumbled. "Why are you here? Ve~ what're you-"

"None of your damn business why I'm here," Romano snapped bitterly. "Go back to sleep, _idiota_. Else you won't have all the energy you need for crying in the morning."

A couple of months ago, this would be the point where Veneziano would start blubbering and asking why his _fratello_ was being so mean before bawling his eyes out, but now he just fixed Romano with a death glare from hell. The elder sighed in gritted-teethed exasperation.

"I had a nightmare, alright?" he confessed. "Dreamt I was back in that stupid dungeon again, waiting for someone to come rescue me, as if it makes any kind of difference. No-one did. I died in that wretched place."

"But you're right here next to me and-"

"I meant in the dream, you dumbass! Now shut the hell up and go back to sleep!"

The younger man winced on every word, which Romano was adamant in ignoring, and tried and failed in shrinking away. With a small growl, Romano screwed up his eyes and tried to get back to sleep.

What right did that useless piece of nothing have, talking to him like that? It wasn't like he ASKED to have the same nightmare every night for the past six weeks. It wasn't as though he had _deliberately_ allowed himself to be hunted, kidnapped, locked up, half-starved and half frozen. And this idiot thought he could actually help in any way?

His eyes popped open in shock as what felt like two warm and rather thick ropes wrapped around his body and drew him closer. He looked down at his younger brother, who was now silently hugging him around his chest, and had apparently fallen back to sleep already.

Romano softly stroked his auburn hair, careful not to wake him up again lest he rouse the hidden demon, and rested his arm on his little brother's shoulder in what an amateur might call an embrace.

"You idiot," he whispered. "You know I'll never be able to make it up to you, right?"

Hopefully, thanks to the presence of his only remaining family, there would be no more nightmares tonight.


	3. Guilt

"West!"

Germany tried to smile as he walked towards his home. His elder brother drew closer, running at an alarmingly fast pace, and then leapt into his arms in a tight hug. The blonde would never understand how somebody so much older than him could ever be so much shorter, and yet still almost bowl him over.

Prussia reached up and ruffled his hair, shaking it loose from the tight bonds of hair gel and allowing it to fall untidily over his eyes. It was annoying. Why did he do that, to feel superior?

"I missed you, _bruder_," said the albino with an enthusiastic smile. "What took you so long getting home? You finally tap that cute Italian ass?"

"_Nein_, I did not," Germany replied through gritted teeth, his smile slipping away. "I have no idea what you are talking about, so-"

"Yeah, right!" Prussia said with a snigger. "Don't try to hide it, li'l bro. I've seen that way you look at him, it's like you wanna get into his pants. And I don't blame you, I mean, who knows what that guy could do with his-"

"That is enough!"

The shorter man took a stunned step back.

"Jeez, bro," he said, "I didn't mean to-"

"I understand that you did not," said Germany in what was probably supposed to be a reassuring tone, but he was too angry for it to be convincing. He tried and failed to stifle a yawn.

"Awwwww, is my widdle bwuvver sweepy?" Prussia cooed, ruffling his hair again.

"A little," Germany admitted with an indignant frown. "I think I shall take a shower and then retire to bed. I would appreciate it if you do not steal my clothes or towels this time."

"I won't make any promises," said Prussia, "but are you ever gonna show me those wicked scars I know you've got?"

"_Nein._" Germany entered the house and continued walking, trying to ignore his pestilent brother.

"Aw c'mon, I bet they're totally badass."

"They are _painful_ and I will not show them to you."

"If you don't show me I'll make a new rule that you have to walk around the house shirtless for a week."

"Fine, I will simply tie a blanket around my neck."

"What, like a superhero cape? But that's fun! And you hate fun stuff! And you know, this is all time you could be spending showing me those scars even though I know they can't look as awesome as me-"

"I SAID _NEIN!_"

Having finally reached the bathroom, he entered and was very pleased to be able to slam the door in the other man's face.

Once inside, he collapsed against the door and slid to the floor, officially mentally exhausted. He buried his face in his hand with a heavy sigh of relief, glad to finally be alone.

'Maybe I was a little harsh on him,' he considered. 'I cannot blame him for being curious about my wounds. He is _mein bruder_ after all.'

He started to pull off his clothes.

'I can't let him see,' he thought. 'He would blame himself for it. He's too egotistical for his own good.'

Once he was down to only his cross pendant, he stepped into the bathtub, pulled the translucent plastic curtain across and turned on the taps.

The hot water pouring down onto his face felt nothing short of amazing, like it was flushing new life into his body. He ran his fingers through his hair, noting the strange contentment that was brought on by the sensation of the scalding hot H2O burning his scalp and the roots of his hair. He wondered if he should turn the temperature down a little, but the water just felt so _good_ right now that he wished he could stay in there for ever-

-and then the water started to wash over his back.

Germany's spine suddenly became straighter than a rod, his muscles contracted involuntarily as pain shot through his body. Through a combination of gritting his teeth and trying not to scream, along with more water, he managed to overcome the agony and continue washing himself.

He didn't want to turn off the water, but eventually he found the willpower and started to reach around beyond the curtain for a towel.

There wasn't one.

"_Bruder_," he said, "if you are stealing my towel, you should know that I will personally-"

He was.

Germany could see, quite clearly, his brother holding the towel he was going to use and looking at him through the curtain. The expression on his face was one of shock and horror, his eyes quivering as though he were about to burst into tears or start screaming, or maybe a combination of the two.

And then the younger man realised that his back had been to the door for almost the entire time he was in the shower.

His scars had been on full display.

The absorbent cloth fell out of Prussia's limp fingers and he turned and walked – or rather, stampeded – out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

"_Bruder_," Germany tried to say. "_Bruder_, wait-"

But he was gone.

* * *

Germany eventually found his brother sitting on his bed, hugging his knees and staring blankly into space. He looked up at the now fully-clothed blonde, who was shocked to see that his eyes were watery and tearful. He blinked, several drops expelled and trickling down his cheeks in the process.

"Bro," he choked, "West, I… I didn't think-"

"_Bruder_," Germany sighed, and he sat down on the edge of Prussia's bed, the frame creaking slightly under the weight of his muscle. The other man didn't move beyond a slight twitch of his fingers.

"I knew they'd be bad," he said. "You told me how horrible that kee-shun was, but I never thought… West, those are _huge_."

"I know," Germany said flatly.

Prussia swung his legs over the edge of the bed so that he could sit next to the larger man.

"I should've protected you," he said.

"_Bruder_-"

"I should've been there for you, West! Couldn't I have done something to protect you? I should've gone with you, I should've- I could've done something to guard you, to-to keep you safe! I'm a goddamn Teutonic knight, aren't I? But no, I sat here at home like a mug and I waited for you to get back, but you didn't and I assumed you were finally banging Italy, but then the days turned into weeks and I-"

"_Bruder_, not even the awesome you could have spared me from the wrath of Atlantis," said Germany, placing what he hoped was a comforting hand on his brother's shoulder. "Consider it a miracle that I am here at all. Had it not been for the intervention of the young Grim Reaper, I am certain that she would have taken my life in a heartbeat."

Prussia nodded in understanding.

"Why'd she lock you up?" he asked. "Couldn't she have just eaten your soul when she got you?"

"I think she wanted to play with my mind," Germany explained. "To seed fear and paranoia in my head before killing me. And it worked: I have never been so terrified in all my life."

"You said she tried to feel you up."

"I didn't say she _tried_."

They sat in silence for a moment, trying to regain their respective composures.

"West?"

"Mm?"

"What were you doing, anyway? Why were you going out?"

Germany clenched his fists on his lap, his face flushed with hot blood. In any other situation, his brother would have started sniggering and making fun of him.

"I was planning to admit my feelings to Italy," he confessed. "I wanted… I wanted to tell him that I love him. And I managed, but I was a coward and could only speak in my native tongue. He was confused. When I tried to explain what the words meant, that's when-"

"When she…"

"_Ja_."

Prussia fell silent, clearly trying to think of something else to say.

"Do they hurt?" he asked.

Germany bowed his head, knowing that he didn't have to speak to make his reply clear. His brother pinched his brow, trying to ignore the tears pouring down his cheeks.

"Shit," he swore in a cracking voice. "What kind of stupid bastard can't protect his little brother?"

"You should know I am not a child anymore," Germany chided him, and then placed his other hand on his shoulder to look the man in the eye. "And I want you to listen to me well, _älter bruder_, when I tell you that _this was not your fault_."

Prussia could take no more. With an audible sob, he pulled his little brother into a hug.


	4. Confinement

His body slumped against the brick wall and slowly slid down to the cold ground.

So what if it was covered in chewing gum and cigarette butts? So what if it probably carried more germs than month-old sushi? So what if he was next to a dumpster that smelled like something had died in it? He was outside, wasn't he? Out in the fresh air, and the wide, open…

He was getting too old for this.

"Sir?"

It was the store attendant, viewing him with a concerned expression. Of course. He had run out rather quickly, hadn't he?

"Sir, are you feeling alright?" asked the attendant. "You looked a little panicked back there."

"_Hai_, I am fine," Japan replied. "I apologise most sincerely if I startled you, it's simply that I was in desperate need of fresh air."

'And the walls,' he added in the privacy of his mind. 'I could have sworn that the walls were closing in around me…'

"Will you be alright?" the attendant inquired.

He didn't want to reply for fear of making himself look like a fool. Japan stood up, gave the attendant a bow of farewell and started to make his way back home.

The evening air tasted fresh and clean on his tongue and he breathed as deeply as he could, savouring every last ounce of it. Alright, there was probably some much purer air out in the country, but _anything_ was practically cleanliness incarnate compared to the cold, stale air of… that place.

No. He had sworn not to think about it ever again.

But still…

He didn't dare mention it to anybody. As far as he knew, most of the other nations were fine. Or at least, they were recovering. He knew Italy-kun had been discharged from hospital a few days ago and was currently trying to adjust to life pushed around by his bitter elder brother (in the literal sense) and Germany-san appeared to have found a way to move without dying of blood loss. He hadn't made much contact with any of the others, preferring instead to remain inside his home.

Even then, it was never for very long. Ever since he had returned to it, the house had felt tight and cramped. Had somebody shrunk it while he was imprisoned? If so, they were a serial shrinker: every building he entered, at least the ones with corridors and small rooms, had felt as though they were gradually getting smaller and smaller the more time he spent in them.

And just then, in the shop, he could have sworn the aisles were closing in on him, coming to crush him and grind him into dust-

He shook his head. This was foolish.

This wall seemed awfully close. Would he get into trouble if he walked down the middle of the road? It was the most spacious part of the street, after all, and the notion of wide open spaces was an extremely pleasant one. Better than a cramped alleyway or a tunnel, where the walls and floors were so close to each other-

Japan stopped momentarily. He thumped his head.

'What is _wrong_ with me?' he thought.

A streetlamp flickered on overhead and bathed his body in yellow light as the sun dipped below the horizon. The dark haired man looked out at the street and sighed: he remembered, as though it was only yesterday, when this place was all tall trees brimming over with cherry blossoms and rolling hills and plains of fresh green grass. Such big plains, nothing blocking his view of the brilliant blue sky, nothing coming in from above and below and to his sides to crush him into nothing more than a lifeless gut-strewn pulp, just like the ground and this wall were right now-

This wasn't NATURAL!

He pinched his brow and rubbed his forehead, trying to work some sense back into his mind. Why? What was with this fear of walls? Well, not so much walls as the small spaces they surrounded… the small, _cramped_ spaces… which were definitely always getting _smaller _the more he looked at them, the more he thought about how they were shrinking…

"_Call yourself a nation? A useless little piece of shit like you couldn't even represent a goddamn anthill…"_

His hand wandered down to his right cheek, running his fingertips along the thin cut which still had yet to heal completely. It was little more than a ridge now: it rose about half a millimetre above the rest of his skin and was a little darker in hue, but to Japan it was like having Mt. Fuji stuck to his cheek.

Surely it was supposed to have gone by now, right?

At least he wasn't the odd one out anymore. Now all former members of the Axis Powers had scars: Italy-kun on his arm, Germany-san on his back and now Japan on his face.

"_You worthless scum make me sick to my core… if Her Ladyship didn't need your soul so much, I'd carve you to pieces right here, in this tiny cell where nobody can hear you scream…"_

He winced, swearing he could feel the needle-sharp corner of the razor piercing his skin.

"…_but I'm feeling generous, so I'll leave you with a reminder of who's in charge around here…"_

And then it was dragged along his cheek, carving his face open and spilling blood all over his dirty white and gold uniform, and then the stranger whom he had never even seen before turned away, and the door grew closer and closer-

-and stopped, just before it hit him.

"Get out of the road, you idiot!" yelled the driver of the car, who thankfully had hit the brake in time. It was the screeching of his tires on the road which had snapped Japan out of his trance, and he was thankful for it.

"_H-hai_," he stammered, "I apologise, _w-watashi wa ayamaru_, I'm sorry, _w-wata-watashi o yurushite k-kudasai_." He stepped back onto the pavement and watched the still angry man speed away.

Then he looked back up at the suburban area he had somehow wandered into. Was he getting so old he had no idea where he was going?

Maybe he should take a break.

And he knew just the person for it.

Japan pulled his mobile phone out of the depths of his coat pocket, knowing that it would still be around lunchtime in Europe, dialled the number and held it up to his ear, waiting anxiously for somebody at the other end to pick up.

Eventually they did, and it took all of the elder nation's self-control to avoid sighing into the mouthpiece.

"Hello?" was the sleepy reply he received. Why was he never more than half awake?

"_Hai_, Greece-san?" said Japan. "It's Japan. I apologise if I have called you at a bad time."

"No, it's fine," answered Greece. "You don't usually call me like this, are you alright? I heard about what happened with Atlantis. It must have been rather traumatising."

Japan gulped, hoping the noise wouldn't be audible along the phone lines. These were memories which he would like to have erased from his mind.

"That is in fact the purpose for my disturbance," he explained. "I was only wondering if it would be possible for me to visit you and maybe stay in your home for a few days. I apologise if it would be inconvenient and of course, you can feel free to decline."

There was a long pause. Several more cars drove past, Japan was thankful that he had no idea where the nearest phone booth was, and he began to wonder if his friend on the other end had fallen asleep.

"Of course," was the eventual reply. "I would enjoy that."

'I'm certain you would,' said Japan in the privacy of his mind.

"Perhaps I could give you another private lesson?"

But… but that was supposed to have been a dream!

"I'll think about it," Japan replied. "_Arigato_, Greece-san."

"It's nothing, really," said Greece. "I'll see you on the next plane from Tokyo."

And with that the conversation was over, and Japan slipped the phone back into his pocket.

Now he just had to find his way home. He would need to pack, and to find somebody to take care of Pochi while he was gone, and get to the airport before the next flight to Athens left without him.

He couldn't wait to be back there, with the beautiful and fascinating ruins of days long past, the cats which seemed as though they were magnetically attracted to the nation with the perpetually messy hair and eyes as green as the sea…

…and, of course, enough wide open areas to satisfy his thirst for space.


	5. Solitude

_His strength had failed him. Now, of all times._

_He tried to struggle. Tried to prise himself free from their vicelike grip, but it was to no avail. No matter how he twisted and writhed, their hands remained tight on his wrists and shoulders, their fingers bruising his face as they were pressed over his mouth._

_Somehow, with a sideways wrench of his face, he was able to free his head._

"_Get off me!" he shouted. "LET ME GO! __**LET ME G**__- mmmpf!"_

_He didn't even know why they were doing this. He didn't know who these people were or what they wanted with him. All he knew was that he wanted to get out of here ASAP._

_There was the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked, and he looked up to see a cold steel barrel pressed against his forehead._

"_Not another move," snarled the thug who was holding it, "or I'll show everyone what colour a nation's brains are."_

_He froze. Even though there was a high chance it wouldn't kill him permanently, he didn't want a bullet in his head. He didn't want to be unable to help anyone else who might be stuck here._

_The door banged open for the second time in as many minutes and the final thug entered, dragging with him a man much smaller and scrawnier than he was. If he had been able to breathe, he would have gasped and then started screaming._

"_Get the bloody hell off me!" shouted the shorter newcomer. "Let me go, you blasted git! Let me GO!"_

_His forest green eyes fell upon the other prisoner and widened in shock._

"_America!" he cried. "Are you-?"_

_He was cut off by a fierce punch to the gut which emptied the air from his lungs. America tried to shout for the thugs to leave his friend alone, but was pulled back and pressed down by the gun barrel on his forehead._

_Meanwhile, the newest assaulter managed to restrain England by pinning his arms against the cold stone wall above his head with a single hand and standing on his feet, completely immobilising the smaller man._

"_If you don't get off me," he snarled, "if you don't release both of us right now I'll-"_

"_What?" asked the man restraining him, producing a switchblade and pressing it against England's throat. "You'll what?"_

_The blonde fell silent and carefully gulped, sweating at the sight of the blade. His attacker moved it down and started to cut the buttons off his jacket, and again on his shirt once it was uncovered. After that, England's vest was lifted, revealing his bare, pale, unblemished body._

_America tried to struggle again. He had to be the hero this time. Who knows what might happen if he allowed this to continue? He had to get free and help England, he had to fight these bastards off, he had to escape and-_

_-and avoid getting shot in the head and rendered unable to do _anything.

"_You keep still," said the one holding England, "and maybe this won't hurt as much."_

"_What?" England demanded. "What won't hurt as- AH!"_

_He cried out in pain as the blade punctured his chest, and tried to avoid breathing too heavily as it was pulled downwards and left a cut about two inches long, which then skewed off sideways at a right angle, forming a small L. He outright screamed when the knife went in a second time, carving another letter which was obscured by blood and difficult to make out from where America was kneeling._

_Satisfied, the thug stepped away, but still kept his hands on England's wrists so that he wouldn't try to escape._

"_Okay," he said, flicking the blade closed and tossing the knife to one of his comrades, "your turn."_

* * *

America's eyes flew open and he sat bolt upright panting, whimpering and clutching fearfully at his bedsheets.

He looked around. Even through the fuzziness that came with not wearing glasses, he could still tell that he was in his bedroom. In his cosy house in good ol' DC. Safe and sound.

It was only a nightmare. Thank god.

But heroes didn't have nightmares.

Did they?

He settled down and hoped against hope that it wouldn't continue once sleep returned.

* * *

_It was finally over._

_The last man released England's bruised wrists and he fell to the floor, his blood soaking into his torn shirts and tainting his whole torso scarlet. His breaths were short and ragged and his eyelids flickered uncontrollably. He was doing everything in his power to just remain conscious._

_America was finally released and he too collapsed, unable to prevent himself from falling._

"_Eng… England…" he breathed._

"_Sorry you guys," said one of the thugs (the one who had first restrained England, presumably the leader) "but we gotta pop out for a while. Gonna go to the city of Death and snatch us a soul!"_

_Laughing raucously, the small horde left the two nations alone in the cell._

_As America sat up, England rolled onto his stomach and tried to tug his shirts closed. He looked up at the nation who was formerly his brother._

"_Are you…" he tried to say._

"_I-I'm okay," America stammered. "I think I'm alright. Wh-what about-"_

"_I'll be fine," England groaned. "I… I think I'll… I'll be…"_

"_I'm sorry."_

_He knew the other nation was looking up at him, but America could barely see through the tears which were clouding his vision. His face was heating up and steaming his glasses, but he didn't notice. He didn't even care that his body was shaking in uncontrollable sobs._

"_I'm so sorry," he choked. "I'm not a hero. I couldn't save you, I… I-I'm just a coward. A stupid coward. I'm sorry I couldn't help you, I was just too scared and I-I didn't want to get hurt because then I wouldn't be able to help you and… and… I'm so sorry!"_

_He slapped his hands over his face, not wanting England to see him in such a sad state._

"_It's okay, America."_

_Gentle hands pulled his arms down and rested them on his knees. It was hard, but the young man somehow managed to look up into the bright emeralds he had grown up with._

"_I don't blame you," England said with a wavering voice, rubbing America's hands. "Do you hear me, America? I do_ not_ blame you."_

_Fingers trembling uncontrollably, America pulled up the bloodied fabric and his tears flowed faster when he saw the fifteen pairs of letters, each couple larger and more careless than the last, carved into England's bleeding body._

"_I'm sorry," he repeated quietly, bowing his head in shame._

_The other man raised his face with a gentle stroke of the cheek, their eyes connected, and America could take no more. He fell forward and wept into England's shoulder, the soft hands on his back doing little to comfort him in his moment of sorrow._

* * *

It wasn't a nightmare.

America realised that as he opened his eyes for the second time that night. That was no dream. It was a memory. One of many that his mind had dredged up every night for the past almost-seven weeks. If anything, it was by far the worst memory of that place, if not his whole life.

Never before did he think he would feel so _helpless_.

He had spent decades upon decades convincing himself that he was the greatest nation in the world. He was the heroic US of A, ready to leap into action and save the asses of any of the others when they needed him, provided they didn't need help with communism.

In that single moment – the space of around a quarter of an hour – everything he had believed about himself was annihilated and he was reduced to nothing. A small flicker of hope had bloomed when they were finally released, but that time he had to step back and allow somebody else to hog the heroism. Italy Veneziano was allowed to be the hero.

Considering what the man was like, it would probably never happen again.

He looked over at the clock by the side of his bed, the luminescent display informing him that it was 10:45pm. There wasn't really any point in trying to get back to sleep yet. It wasn't like it would last long.

America needed somebody to talk to. Badly.

His fumbling hand found his phone a couple of centimetres away from the clock, but the glare from the screen made his eyes hurt and he had to don Texas for extra protection.

He brought up the list of contacts and scrolled down to _Limey Jerkwad._


	6. Deprivation

England chided himself for his stupidity. He knew it was futile, but what had he hoped for?

A minute of sleep?

It was all he wanted. Just to fall asleep and stay that way. He didn't care how long it lasted, he just wanted sleep! He considered himself lucky that he wasn't human, else he would have died at least four times by now.

He liked to avoid looking in the mirror. It only reminded him of how much he resembled a zombie.

His hand was trembling as he reached for the cup of tea that sat by the side of his bed – his bed that might as well not even be there considering how little it was used for what it was intended for. He poured all of his concentration into keeping his hand steady as he sipped from the cup, careful not to spill any down his front, and then put it back down and tried to ignore the way it clattered in the saucer in accordance with his twitching fingers.

What sort of world was this when a man couldn't even drink his own tea anymore? He knew that insomnia was a symptom, not a disease, but a symptom of what? What was _wrong_ with him?

The sound of a phone snapped his concentration – not that there was much to begin with – and he stumbled out of his bedroom, leaned heavily on the railing as he staggered down the stairs and fell to the floor once he reached the small table on which his phone sat.

Sitting with his back against the wall, he picked up the receiver and tried to avoid dropping it.

"Hello?" he said, wondering who could be calling so early.

"That you, England?"

England sighed.

"What the hell do you want, America?" he asked. "You do know the sun hasn't even risen yet, don't you? I would have thought you'd fallen asleep by now."

"I did," America replied. "That's why I'm calling. I had a nightmare."

"And what?" England demanded moodily. "Do you want me to fly across the Atlantic with warm milk and sing a lullaby?"

He waited for an answer, expecting something snarky and rude.

"Jeez, Iggy, you sound awful," was what he got. "You feelin' alright? Sounds like you haven't slept in weeks."

England rubbed his itching eyes. He wondered whether he would be able to confide his thoughts in such an idiot as America or whether his insomnia would become the latest in worldwide gossip.

Maybe exhaustion was clouding his judgment.

"I haven't," he confessed. "You want the truth, America? I haven't had a wink of sleep ever since I got home from that wretched place and I have no idea why. All I want is just to sleep, is that too much to ask?"

Another pause. England could imagine steam pouring out of the other man's ears as his brain overheated from thinking.

"You can have some of my sleep if you like," he said after a short while.

"Why, what's your problem?" asked England even though he wasn't all that bothered. "Are you sleeping too much or something?"

"Nah, didn't I already say I had a nightmare?" said America. "I've been having nightmares ever since I got home. I know it sounds dumb, but I'm afraid to close my eyes in case I remember anything from…"

"That place."

"Yeah."

"What was it?" England asked, now curious despite himself. He rather liked it when he could have a civilised conversation with America – they didn't happen as often as he preferred. "What did you dream about?"

"It was… crap," America swore. "It was… back w-when I was first caught, a-and they- I-I wanted to help, I really did, but they held me a-and I could hardly move and… a-and then one of them dragged you in and held you up against the wall and… and he…"

"_You keep still and maybe this won't hurt as much_."

Wasn't that what he said?

"…an-and there was nothing I could do, I…"

His free hand wandered down to his pyjama shirt and he reached inside, his fingertips running along the thin ridges that jutted out of his torso.

"They carved their initials into my body," he finished for his friend. "I'm so sorry you had to watch that-"

"Don't be," America snapped. "It's my fault for not helping you, Iggy. I should've done something. I should have gone Chuck Norris on those bitches! But instead I just sat there and watched those bastards cut you. I should've done something! I should've saved you, Iggy!"

"And allowed yourself to be hurt as well? If not even worse?" asked England in the voice a father might use for chastising his son. "America, if my memory serves me correctly, they had a gun. And they pressed it against your forehead. You wouldn't have been able to do _anything_ if one of those sods put a bullet through your brain."

"B-But I didn't do anything anyway," America snivelled. "I'm such an idiot! How can I call myself the hero of the world if I can't even save one person?!"

"America-"

"And now you can't sleep! And you haven't slept in ages and there's nothing I can do about it! I'm useless, Iggy! I don't even know what I'm doing anymore, I should just go jump off the Empire State Building 'coz it's not like I can _do_ anything!"

"_America_-"

"In fact, you know what? That's what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna grab a taxi, go to New York, go up to the top of the Empire State and jump off. It's the only worthwhile thing I'll ever have done in my whole life and-"

"LISTEN TO ME, AMERICA!" England screamed. "YOU'RE FANTASTIC! YOU'RE INCREDIBLE, DO YOU HEAR ME?! YOU'RE THE BEST PERSON I KNOW AND I HAVE NO IDEA WHY YOU'RE HAVING SO MUCH TROUBLE REALISING THAT, SO GET BACK ON YOUR BLOODY HIGH HORSE AND STOP PITYING YOURSELF, YOU STUPID GIT!"

His rant was met with stunned silence.

"You don't have to take responsibility for everything that happened in that god-awful place," he said in a more quiet voice. "None of it was your fault. The Atlantis Incident was completely out of our hands, don't you realise that?"

America sighed. It was muffled. Probably covered by his hand.

"I still find it hard to believe that Italy of all people was the one who got us out of there," he said, and from his tone of voice, England could tell that he was smiling. "I thought he was dead. Hell, we both thought he was dead, didn't we?"

"Yes, we did," said England with a faint smile of his own. "We assumed that Atlantis had killed him. I know I didn't believe it until the wall exploded."

"Yeah, what was it you said when he did that?"

"'You were only supposed to blow the bloody door off' I think. You could have fitted an elephant through that hole."

They sniggered for a couple of seconds.

"England?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks."

"What for?"

"Lots of things," said America. "For picking up the phone and still listening when you heard it was me. For listening _to_ me. For being the only thing in my life which I can be 100% reliable on."

There was no doubt in England's mind that America was an idiot, but occasionally he could be the most adorable idiot on the face of the earth and somehow knew exactly what to say to make him feel better.

"You're welcome," he replied.

He cast his eyes to the window and noted that dawn was breaking outside. For the umpteenth time in as many nights, he hadn't had a single wink of sleep. This time, however, he was anything but depressed.

"Iggy?"

And now he was annoyed. He didn't understand the nickname and doubted he ever would, but decided to go with it.

"Yes, America, what is it now?"

"D'you wanna come and stay at my place for a while? You sound like you could use a bit of a vacation and I really don't want to be alone right now, so what do you say?"

The quote-unquote gentleman mulled it over for a little while, unsure how to politely respond.

"The thought of endless hamburgers and constant video games isn't an appealing one," he stated, "but I'm all for it if it means I get to spend some time with you."

"What's that about, Iggy? You got a crush on me?"

"Nothing of the sort! I'll be on the next flight to DC, alright?"

"See you then!"


	7. Companionship

"…but no matter how I pleaded, no matter what I did or said, they refused to release me!"

"_Oh mon dieu_, really?"

"You poor darling!"

"What did they do to you?"

"Truly terrible things," France said with a sip of his wine. "The cell in which I was imprisoned was cold and dark and constantly wet, and my only companion was a man who had been an enemy of mine in times long past."

"Ooh," cooed one of the women who was sitting beside him. "That must have been awkward."

"But it still does not explain why you need this!" another pointed out.

The long-haired nation looked over at her, removed the crutch from her delicate hands and examined it as though it were a terrible weapon.

"It is… unpleasant," he explained, then slipped it onto his arm and stood up, leaning on it heavily. "I do not wish to disturb you with the details, _mon chers_, so with your permission I shall take my leave and-"

"No!" the ladies cried.

"Please don't go!" said one, taking hold of his crutch.

"We want to know, please?" whined another, gently cuddling his leg.

France looked down at them all, their wide bright eyes and cherubic faces. He couldn't bear to deny a lady.

"_Are you _enjoying_ this?_"

"Well," he said with a smile, "as I cannot decide which of you ladies is the most gorgeous-"

They giggled in happy embarrassment.

"-I would be delighted to explain."

He lowered his body back down and landed on the chair with a soft thump.

"It was not long after I had been captured," he said, "and as I had explained before, I was horrendously confused. I had no idea who captured me, I had no idea what for, and I had no idea what they wished to do with me. The one I shared my cell with had been there for longer than I had, and he was teetering on the edge of despair. He still bears a large cut upon his right cheek running from his ear almost to his nose. It was a wonder that I could not see his teeth on the other side."

"_Let's see how much you enjoy _this."

France shuddered at the memory.

"Our captors enjoyed assaulting us," he continued. "Usually it was only punches and kicks and insults which I could improve in my sleep, but once… I presumed it was their leader, for he was the largest and brawniest of the group, but sadly he was not an imbecile. He made sure to render my cellmate unconscious before concentrating his attacks on me."

"Such a brave man," said one of the women, stroking his soft blonde hair.

"I only wish I could have been," said France. "But I was frightened. I was a coward. I allowed him to press me against the wall, clutching me around the throat, to the point that I could barely breathe or even see what was happening. He began to rub the blade of a blunt knife along my leg. I regret that I was born with the mind of a pervert, and… well, it began to show itself."

One of the ladies shuffled away slightly, but all of the rest started giggling.

"And when he began to suspect that I was… well, that I was enjoying myself, he took the knife and plunged it into my leg."

There was a collective gasp from his small crowd.

"The entire blade," said France, indicating a spot on his right thigh. "All the way up to the hilt, right here. My friend removed it, but it was difficult because the blade had become jammed in the bone!"

One of the girls looked close to crying.

"And when I finally persuaded a doctor to examine it upon leaving that wretched place, I learned that the damage to my nerves meant I may never walk properly again," he finished. "Hence, the crutch."

He didn't know why he hadn't tried this before. Ladies loved a man who was strong and brave, yet not afraid to reveal his emotions. This tale of woe was winning over these women like never before.

So why didn't it feel right?

"_I apologi-"_

"Non!_ Don't bother, just help me get it out."_

"Hai._ I will try."_

He took another sip of wine as the girls gossiped around him.

"_Nngh-"_

"_I apologise, the blade appears to be jammed in the bone."_

"_Get it out!"_

"_Please try to remain still. I have never done this before."_

He stood up again, once more leaning on his crutch.

"_Je dois aller, mademoiselles_," he said, "it is getting late and there are many matters which require my attention."

His statement was met with variations of "no!" and "please don't go!" but he bid farewell to the beautiful young women and carefully hobbled out into the cool night air.

"_I think it is dislodged."_

"_Then pull it out!"_

It was a pleasant evening in Corsica – just warm enough not to be considered cold, just cool enough not to be considered hot. France didn't know why he didn't come here more often, especially since it was close enough to be considered a part of Italy.

"Merci, Japon, _I am eternally- what are you doing? Stop!"_

"_I am sorry, France-san, but I have been captured and dishonoured by the enemy. This is the only thing I can do."_

"_But you don't know who the enemy is! Japan, STOP!"_

It had been too close. The point of the knife had been _this_ far from his stomach and had definitely pierced the smaller man's dirtied, bloodied white uniform, and when France had seized his hands…

"_Surely there's another way. You don't have to die!"_

"_But… but it is the only…"_

"_No it isn't. Somebody is sure to come and find us. We will escape! And then you have all the time in the world to restore your honour. You don't have to die!"_

And then his fingers fell limp, allowing France to place the knife on the ground…

His phone rang. He pulled it out with his free hand and answered it.

"_Bonjour?_" he said.

"Big Brother France! I was hoping you could pick up. It's me, Italy!"

"Hello, Italy!" A smile spread across France's face at the sound of the adorable young man's voice. "It is so nice to hear from you again. How have you been, _mon cher?_"

"Ve~ I'm doing great!" cried Italy enthusiastically. "I can finally use my left arm again which means I don't need Romano to push me around all the time! And I found out that Kid was on a mission in Europe and I thought I could meet up with him and we could get pasta together!"

"Kid?" asked France, more than a little confused.

"You know: the Grim Reaper who took care of me when I was in Death City?"

"Oh, of course!" said France, memories returning of a stern young man with stripes in his hair and a very nicely tailored suit. "Give him my compliments, will you not? He was such a nice boy when he was not worrying about my wounded leg."

"I know, I know," Italy replied, "he's got a really big thing for symmetry, you see. And why don't you give him your compliments yourself?"

Now he was properly confused. He looked behind him, just to make sure Italy wasn't back there, and turned to face forwards again.

"_Excusez-moi?_" he asked. "I am not certain I understand, _Italie_. Are you telling me that you are in Corsica right now?"

"Not just in Corsica," said Italy. "I already met with Kid in a restaurant across the street. I can see you!"

France cast his eyes around the semi-busy road, searching for a happy face and an adorable little hair curl. He located it in an Italian restaurant, just a little way down the road from where he was standing. Italy was seated, still in his wheelchair, grinning like a lunatic with sparkling caramel eyes wide open and waving like a wild man at a football match. Across the table from him was a well-dressed youth with stripes in his hair and a embarrassed look on his face.

"I see you too," he said happily, giving a brief wave of his crutch. "Are you two discussing anything special?"

"Ve~ we're just catching up," said Italy. "You wanna come in and join us? I'll order you some really nice pasta!"

As France watched, Kid leaned forward and said something to Italy, then sat back in exasperation at an apparently unsatisfactory reply.

"Kid says it would be okay so long as you don't try to stroke his hair again," Italy reported.

France didn't reply this time. He just smiled to himself and started to hobble across the street.


	8. Illumination

There wasn't enough light.

He had hung a lantern in every corner of his room, but it was still far too dark for his liking. And it couldn't be dark. It could _not_ be dark. Who knows what might happen if he allowed his own bedroom to be DARK?!

No. He couldn't. No darkness.

Not after the last time.

Maybe he should try something else. Rather than an even spread of luminosity, he should concentrate it in a certain area and not leave unless it was necessary. Nothing could touch him. No darkness. No shadows. Nothing.

He tracked down an extra 4 lanterns and set up all of them – the total number now coming to 8 – in a circle on the floor, then seated himself in the centre, sighing in relief as he was finally surrounded by light.

No.

It was escaping. Up to the ceiling. Out to the sides and the walls. He needed to hoard it. Everything else could stay dark as far as he was concerned. So he found a blanket and draped it over his head, making sure to keep the lanterns as close as possible to inhibit the light. He didn't want it to get away. Precious illumination. He wouldn't be able to live without it.

Last time he was in complete darkness, he…

He ran his fingers through his hair, the mass of dark strands which hung loosely around his head and face and tickled his cheeks and forehead.

It was gone.

His ebony splendour. The long dark sheath of locks that he had brushed and combed for hundreds- no, for _thousands_ of years. One second it was there and the next…

He hadn't seen it coming.

Literally.

"_What the- you're a guy! Hey, come check this out, you'll never believe it! This one's a _guy!_"_

"_You what?! But look at him! There's no way, it's gotta be a chick. Right?"_

"_No seriously, it's a guy! Look, he's got a dick and everything!"_

They decided to make it easier to tell the difference. One of them had restrained his companion, the one who was locked in the dungeon with him, pressing a gun against his head. That was the last thing he'd seen – his friend's terrified eyes focusing on the pistol being pressed against his skull – before darkness overtook him. Darkness became his entire world.

Stupid _darkness_…

His arms had been twisted up painfully behind his back, held in place by something thin, cold and smooth that felt like a cable tie which cut off his circulation and made his fingers feel numb, then his hair was seized and he was hanging by his ponytail and then…

Then it was gone.

He had fallen. Crashed down, no longer supported and still bound and blinded, to the cold stone ground. Not daring to talk or move or even breathe out of sheer terror. He felt dizzy. Lightheaded. Like he wouldn't even be able to stand up without falling over again. Fumbling gloved fingers had pulled the band around his wrists apart, leaving them sore and red, and strong arms had pulled his limp, unmoving body into a tight and protective embrace, and then there was a flicking noise as of a lighter being turned on.

Seconds later, the muggy and humid air of the cell was tainted by the stench of smoke and burning hair. He had never felt as helpless or weak as he did at that very moment, laying there in the arms of a man whom he had once cared for.

"_If you take that blindfold off him, even for a single second, I'll put a bullet through both your brains. Understand, you psychotic freak of nature?"_

"_D-Da, I understand."_

His hair didn't seem to be growing either. And it had taken well over a thousand years for him to get a length and style that he liked.

"_Here, let me-"_

"_No! No, don't!"_

"_But they have gone! Surely it would now be safe to-"_

"_Please don't. I do not want to take any chances-aru. I cannot risk letting you be hurt too!"_

And he had remained that way. In total darkness. Terrified that the next time the door opened would spell his doom for certain. And now he was petrified at the very concept of darkness because he knew, just _knew_, that something awful would happen if he allowed himself to live in gloom.

Or that he would feel those ice-cold tears once more dripping onto his neck.

"_I'm sorry."_

"_Don't be."_

"_I'm sorry!"_

"_I said don't be-_

"_I'M SORRY!"_

"…_It's not your fault-aru."_

"…_I'm so sorry…"_

"_Don't be sorry. It's not your fault."_

He heard the door to his room open and close, listened as footsteps approached and stopped, felt the floorboards bend beneath the weight of the newcomer who still had yet to speak.

To think he had dared to believe he could ever be strong and powerful in this day and age. But… but hadn't he been the one who defeated the Axis with little more than cooking implements? And weren't his people the inventors of kites and fireworks and compasses and all sorts of other things which people took for granted these days? He was one of the most powerful countries in the whole world!

Wasn't he?

Maybe he was just getting weaker as he got older. These old bones were growing tired. Maybe it was time he settled down and started to live a more peaceful life…

No. He was the People's Republic of China. The oldest nation on the face of the Earth. He'd be damned if he was even going to _think_ about stopping now.

Then again, he _was_ the oldest nation in the world…

He sighed and rubbed his forehead, resisting the temptation to bury his face in his hands and block out the much-desired light.

"Aiyah," he sighed, "four thousand years…"

He often wondered where all the time had gone. It felt like only yesterday that he was a small child, awakening in a forest of bamboo, or in his late teens and finding a little black haired boy in the same situation as he had been, or trying to keep the monstrosity of the Mongol Empire from assaulting the tiny scarf-wearing blonde who had only wanted to give the bully a sunflower.

Of course, the whole reason China had been there in the first place was that he was looking for the thief that had stolen a flower from his garden, but after seeing the kid's dilemma he couldn't help but take pity on him.

And sometimes it felt less like four thousand years and more like four million. He could easily recall what he had done a couple of centuries ago, but what about yesterday? And the day before that?

He glanced around at his lanterns. They didn't appear to have a lot of fuel left – only enough to last a quarter of an hour at least, half an hour at the most. He dreaded the moment he would have to get up and venture out into the darkness in order to find more.

Whoever was in front of him still hadn't moved since they came in. It was beginning to make him rather nervous. They probably didn't think he'd noticed them coming in.

"I can tell somebody is there-aru," he stated blankly. "Do you think you hide your presence? If so, I am afraid it not work-aru."

He was met with silence. Maybe the intruder was thinking.

"Who are you?" he asked. "What are you doing in my house-aru? I don't have to look to know you not Hong Kong or Korea, so reveal your identity or-"

The blanket over his head was whisked away.

China's eyes tracked up. And up. They finally came to a rest on a round, childish face with innocent violet eyes and an expression of concern and worry. For the smaller man, it was the last face he wanted to see.

"RUSSIA!" he screamed, leaping out of his circle of lanterns. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY HOUSE-ARU?!"

"No," said Russia, "wait-"

"I-I don't want trouble," said China, scrambling back along the floor, "so whatever you want, j-just take it and go and please don't hurt me-"

"China, I would never try to hurt you," Russia said as he approached. "I only want to-"

"STAY AWAAAY!"

In his kicking, he accidentally knocked the giant's feet out from under him, landing them both in a… rather compromising position.

"I-If this is about what happened back in Atlantis' dungeon-aru," China choked, "I didn't-"

"I just want to talk," said Russia, sitting back on the floor.

"Please?"


	9. Weakness

"I just want to talk," said Russia, and he sat down and pulled his knees to his chest, curling up like a frightened child. "Please?"

China shuffled upwards so that he was sitting properly.

"Is that so?" he asked.

"_Da_," Russia replied.

"Hold on-aru."

The taller nation watched in bemusement as his smaller friend picked up the lanterns and positioned them so that he was surrounded by as much light as possible. He frowned when he saw the Russian's expression.

"Don't look at me like that-aru," he snapped.

"Like what?"

"Like I'm some kind of weird space alien. I just don't like darkness, okay-aru?"

Russia nodded. He understood perfectly.

"S-so anyway," said China, clearly trying to regain composure, "what did you want to talk about?"

Russia tugged at his scarf, trying to release some heat from under his collar. He was nervous. He had never discussed this kind of thing with anybody , let alone China. But he had to get it out. Otherwise he would explode.

"China," he said, "do you feel weak?"

He was being glared at accusingly. Maybe he had said the wrong thing.

"What do you mean-aru?" asked China. "Russia, you are one of strongest nations in the world. You're not weak. You're opposite-aru!"

"I… I don't feel strong anymore," Russia explained, bowing his head in shame. "I used to think I was most strong and powerful country on face of Earth, but since I return home I don't- I don't feel as strong as I used to be."

He looked up at China, pleading for the understanding he so desperately desired. China, with his round, boyish face, his bright eyes and-

-short straight hair, hanging like a dead thing around his cheeks.

He reached up, the tips of his fingers brushing against the smaller man's ear as he shied away. When he realised that no harm would come to him, China allowed Russia to twirl the dark locks around his fingers. His face was heartbreaking: a blend of guilt, sadness and unfiltered regret.

"I could have protected you."

"No, Russia-"

"I am strong and powerful country, da? I crush smaller countries beneath my feet and eat their hearts for breakfast, but I cannot keep you safe from small group of petty humans."

"Russia-"

"I had to watch them hurt you and did not do anything to help. I allowed myself to be overpowered by band of primitive thugs armed only with knives and guns. I should have been able to beat them, but I got scared and should have-"

"Let yourself get shot?" asked China.

He took the other country's hand away from his hair, but kept their fingers intertwined.

"They would have shot you-aru," said the Oriental. "They were not men, but savages. Barely even human anymore. Their lives being taken was a mercy too generous for them-aru."

He wanted to smile. Russia wanted to admit that China's words were comforting him, but they weren't. He rubbed the fingers that held his, if only to remind himself that they were there. They were alive. No longer living a nightmare.

"They cut it off," he stated weakly. "Your hair."

"It's only hair," said China, possibly to convince himself as well as his companion. "Hair that will grow back-aru. You don't have to worry about that."

Russia failed to avert his eyes.

"Maybe," he said doubtfully. With a faint smile he added "I must admit that you look very cute with shorter hair."

It took all of his willpower to avoid laughing as China's face flushed the same colour as a ruby.

"This is hardly appropriate time to say such thing-aru!" he cried.

"Well, if not now, when?" asked Russia, retaining his innocent smirk.

It warmed his frozen heart to see China smile. He looked so sweet and childlike. Positively huggable. It was hard to imagine that he was over 4000 years old.

Still…

It was next to impossible to forget. The desperation and fear in his eyes just before they were hidden behind a strip of black cloth. The sheer terror written all over his face as he was seized by the hair, and when Russia saw the dim light glinting off the blade of a knife, he was all but certain that somebody else close to him was about to die.

He had enough blood on his hands as it was.

"Russia?"

He wrapped his other hand around China's, wishing he could never let go.

"Were you scared?" he asked, trying to avoid looking into his eyes. "When they cut it off, were you frightened?"

China gulped, suddenly fearful.

"I-I'm sorry," Russia stammered, "that was bad question, I should not have-"

"It's alright," China interrupted him. He tugged the gloves away, revealing the other nation's pale hands, and rubbed them to warm them up.

"To tell the truth," he said, "I was more afraid than I had ever been in my whole life-aru. I heard them draw the knife, but I couldn't see where they were or what they were going to do with it. I feared they may cut off part of my body-aru. When I felt them grab my hair, I- I just…"

Russia saw his eyes flicker to the lanterns, which had grown noticeably darker since they had started talking. The smaller man was beginning to grow more shifty and nervous by the second.

"What's wrong?" asked the gentle giant. "Are you afraid now?"

China bit his lip.

"_Shì_," he admitted. "Of the darkness. I don't want it to be dark-aru. I know, it sounds childish, but I keep thinking that if I let there be darkness I might-"

He was cut off, quite suddenly, by Russia pulling him into a tight hug.

'Nothing bad can happen to you,' was what he wanted to say. 'No harm will come to you while I am here. I can keep you safe. I can protect you from the things and people that might hurt you.'

But it wouldn't be true.

No matter what China said, Russia knew that there should have been something he could have done. Even now, when he should have been indulging in the warmth of their bodies pressed together, he could tell that the other man was equally as damaged as he was. And the worst part was that_ there was nothing he could do about it_.

He allowed his fingers to run through that dark hair. It should have been longer. Much longer. Long enough to wrap around his entire hand, not just his smallest finger.

He looked past China's head at his unclothed hands.

These hands had failed him when he had needed them. Couldn't he have reached up and seized that gun? Would the thug have just pulled another and shot him? Would China have been shot instead? Or as well?

He closed his eyes, ignoring the tears that started to trickle down his face.

"Russia?" said China. "Are you okay-aru?"

He wasn't.

"I failed you," he choked. "I'm so sorry. I couldn't keep you safe."

China didn't say anything this time. He just waited patiently for Russia to finish.

"I should have protected you," he wept. "I should have fought them off. I should have not cared if I had been shot, da? But I cowered. I allowed myself to be restrained. I-I thought I was capable, but I allowed them to tear you right out of my hands…"

He looked down at his pale fingers, gulping heavily and trying to swallow the massive lump in his throat.

"They…" he muttered, "they look like… big, good, strong hands… da?"

China leaned away from him and took one of his 'big, good, strong' hands in his own thin and petite ones.

"They are as strong as they need-aru," he stated.

He reached up and wiped the tears away from Russia's soft cheeks and straightened his scarf.

"I think I should let you know," he said, "that you forgot something-aru."

"I did?" Russia said, confused as to what he could have neglected. "But I didn't have anything else to talk about-"

He fell silent as China placed a finger on his lips, a cheeky smile spreading across his face.

"Traditional Russian greeting?" he said questioningly.

What? But the traditional Russian greeting was…

Oh.

_Oh._

Well… it wasn't _exactly_ what he had come here for. He had wanted to be able to talk to China, to confide in him and explain his feelings, to find comfort when he needed it and offer it in return…

But what was wrong with having a little fun?

He leaned forward, allowing himself a playful smile, and as the surrounding lanterns finally ran out of fuel, he kissed China on the lips.


	10. Recovery

Russia was the first to awaken the next morning. It was difficult to sleep when the sunlight was shining down right onto his face and piercing his closed eyelids. It wasn't the sharp light that came from a cloud-filled sky, but instead the warmth of the unblocked sun. This was the light of new life.

A new day.

He became aware of a second presence, resting atop his seated body, and wrapped his arm around the snoozing China's shoulders. With his other hand, he reached up and gently ran his fingers through the smaller man's hair.

It should have lasted longer. He had longed for decades to twirl those dark tresses around his fingertips and tug them free from their thin elastic bonds, but would that ever be possible again?

He thought back to last night.

It was how he greeted people: a kiss on the lips. It was simple. It was chaste. It showed that he didn't mean harm. Last night was definitely the first time anybody had _kissed back._ And then…

It escalated. It became deeper. More passionate. More _romantic_. He hadn't even realised how much he wanted it until it started. Hadn't realised just how much he wanted to be loved. Hadn't realised how much he had wanted to be loved by China specifically. It felt like he had been born again. Like nothing else in the world mattered besides what was happening at that very moment. Nothing except him and China.

It hadn't lasted anywhere near as long as he had wanted. Only a little over a minute at the most. The smaller man had unfortunately realised that his lanterns had run out of fuel and gone out, leaving the two of them in near total darkness. The only light came from the moon and stars outside. China had started to panic. He hugged Russia more tightly than if he was his precious panda and refused to let go until he fell asleep in the larger man's lap.

He looked so adorable. The sunlight reflected off his skin and shone on his ebony hair and made him look as though he was glowing. He couldn't possibly have looked more beautiful if he was an angel who was kicked out of heaven for the sole reason of being too beautiful.

Carefully, Russia picked up the trailing lengths of scarf that fell from his neck and wrapped them around China's slumbering body. He looked so peaceful and lovely that the larger nation couldn't help but lean forward and plant a small kiss on his forehead.

This was this thing his little sister was always talking about, wasn't it? That thing she professed just about every day she was around him?

Yes. It was.

This was… love, wasn't it?

If so, he hoped it would be returned.

"China?" he whispered. "Are you awake?"

* * *

Light!

Precious light!

It was the first thing China saw as he cracked his eyes open. The light of the sun was streaming through the window, dancing on his skin and warming his entire body. Or… wait, this was…

"_Dobroye utro_, China."

His fingers traced upward and until they found a sheath of soft woollen fabric, sitting beneath a chubby cheek and a mat of short hair…

He opened his eyes and looked up, met by glittering purple eyes and a soft, friendly smile.

"_Zǎo ān_, Russia," he replied. "Are you feeling okay-aru?"

"Much better now that you are awake," said Russia happily.

China giggled, surprised at how childish he sounded and felt.

"You're so adorable," he said, ruffling the taller man's short platinum hair. "To think, there was a time when you only came up to my knee-aru."

"I know," said Russia. "Hard to believe I was ever that small. And… well…"

"Yes?"

Russia gulped nervously.

"Do you remember?" he asked. "The day we met? That question I asked you?"

China thought back, trying to recall.

"You asked to marry me when you grew up-aru," he recalled.

When Russia nodded, he stared in horror.

"Y-you mean you were SERIOUS?!"

"_Da_, of course!"

But he had been so small! So innocent! And had China known that he really _would_ grow up to be as big and strong and powerful as he possibly could, if not the biggest country in the world, there wouldn't have been any way that he would have agreed!

"B-but-" he stammered. "B-but you were just a child-aru! I did not think you were serious-"

"Why would I not be?"

Damn him and his innocent eyes…

"And why are you so serious, China?"

He felt the fabric which had been draped around his shoulders. It was warm, soft and carried a faint smell of vodka. It summed up the kind of person Russia was.

On the outside, at least. Who knows what was lurking inside.

Strong fingers took his hand and held it close, rubbing and warming his fingers.

"Please don't ignore what happened last night," said Russia. "You suggested the kiss. You returned it, also. Nobody has ever done that before."

"What?" said China. "You mean nobody has ever…"

Russia shook his head.

"I think people are afraid of me," he said sadly. "The only person who wants to come near me anymore is Belarus, and I spend most of time trying to stay away from her as much as possible."

He shuddered at the uncomfortable memories.

"_Big Brother… let us become one…"_

A soft hand gripped the back of his neck.

"Well then," said China, "somebody's going to have to change that-aru."

Russia smiled as he was pulled down into another kiss.

* * *

It was a beautiful evening.

From this high up, there was a magnificent view of the sunset. The sky splashed with gorgeous shades of pink, orange and red, the sun like a golden flower as it dipped below the horizon, the city lights flickering on as Paris changed from daytime into night. It would make any man proud to call this city home.

"Uh, _monsieur? _I am afraid we are closing soon."

"_Oui_, I understand."

France slipped his arm back into his trusty crutch and entered the elevator. He had spent hours leaning over the railing, and was tired and wished to return to his home.

To think: he had been worried about the crutch. Worried that it might be impossible to get used to or affect his chances with the ladies. If anything, it made people even more attracted to him than they were before!

And when he took into account just _why_ he needed it in the first place, he couldn't help but appreciate it.

Even though it was amazing to be up so high, he had to admit that it was pleasant to feel his ground beneath his feet once more as he entered the streets. There weren't many people outside at this time of night, not many cars on the roads, no raucous motorbikes or street mimes. It was peaceful and tranquil. If only it could be like this all the time.

There weren't any people who would notice the nation struggling to put as much weight on his left leg as possible. His right leg was fumbling and rather clumsy and he was struggling to manoeuvre it into the correct position. He could move it, but not without extreme difficulty.

This was demonstrated when he accidentally kicked the crutch out from under his arm and he crashed heavily to the ground. The metal support fell off and skittered away, too far for him to reach.

"_Merde_," he swore.

France tried to stand up, but when he put weight on his right leg it slipped from underneath him and shot pain through his body, emanating from the point where he had been stabbed.

Even when he tried to kneel, the agony was such that he was soon sprawled across the ground again.

He thumped the ground with his fist.

Why was he so helpless?

"_Monsieur!_"

Gentle hands took his body and lifted it clear of the ground. He found himself surrounded by a small group of concerned-looking young men and women, one of whom passed him his precious crutch. He gratefully slipped it back onto his arm.

"_Monsieur_, are you alright?" asked one of the women. "Do you need help?"

France couldn't help but smile. His people could be so compassionate.

"_Merci, mes amis_," he said. "I will not forget your kindness."

* * *

England opened his eyes.

It took him a moment to remember where he was. He was lying on a comfortable sofa, his half-naked body covered by a soft, warm blanket. He pulled it up and wrapped it around his shoulders, wishing he wouldn't have to move for the rest of his life.

"Good morning, sleepyhead."

He pulled the cushion out from under his head and slapped it over his face.

"Bugger off, America," he groaned.

"Nice to know you're back to your own self," said America, who was leaning on the arm of the sofa, grinning like an idiot. "You sleep alright?"

England rolled over and hugged the cushion, not wanting to face him or let him see his smile.

"I'd be lying if I said that wasn't the best night's sleep I've had in weeks," he confessed.

"Iggy, that's the _only_ night's sleep you've had in weeks," America pointed out.

"Exactly," said England. "That automatically designates it as the best."

"Whatever," said America, and he sat down heavily next to England's legs. "You hungry? Thirsty?"

"I want-"

"Yeah?"

"I want you to bugger off, you stupid Yank. I'm still very tired and I would like to go back to sleep, if you don't mind."

"Oh," said America, smile falling. "Yeah. Sure. I'm not surprised if you're tired, you've been asleep for over a day."

"A DAY?!"

"Enjoy your nap!"

"Wha-" England tried to say. "But- but you- a whole day?!"

Too late. America had disappeared to god knows where. England was left all on his own, lying under…

It was a flag. A flag! Or a stars-and-stripes-patterned blanket, it was still incredibly narcissistic.

And comfortable.

He gathered a handful of the soft fabric, pressed his face into it and took a deep breath in through the nose. It smelled of hamburgers and sugar and workout-related sweat.

It smelled like America.

Wait a minute, what was he _doing?_ This was France grade creepiness! Plain perverted! What was he doing sniffing America's blanket?

He slapped himself on the cheek.

So what if he was happy that America had offered him a chance to stay at his place for a few days? So what if it was the first time England had slept in a little under two months? It wasn't like being near America had anything to do with it!

Was it?

Against his will, his fingers moved to his bare chest. They traced over the letters which still had yet to fade, a permanent reminder of time spent in cold and darkness, with only a man who had once been his brother for company.

He had looked so… _vulnerable_…

And America NEVER looked vulnerable. All England had wanted to do was to embrace him, comfort him, and tell him everything was going to be alright…

He put the cushion back under his head, trying desperately to empty his overfilling mind.

* * *

He hadn't had any nightmares since he'd arrived.

In the time that England had spent in America's place, the younger nation hadn't had a single bad dream. Not even anything relatively unnerving, like flying hamburgers or cheese trying to eat him or him sobbing into the chest of a big-eyebrowed blonde.

He poked his head around the door frame and saw that England had fallen asleep again. One of his hands was under his pillow, clutching it tightly against his head, and the other was resting atop the stars-and-stripes blanket that America had pulled out for him.

The limey jerk looked so adorable.

His face, which had been sullen and tired, lit up like the sun when he saw America waiting for him at the airport. Even so, he had barely said a word throughout the journey to America's house (he told the younger man that he didn't want to impose: a sofa, whatever that was, would be as good as a bedroom) and when they arrived, America had come through from getting them both cans of soda to find that England had stripped down to his pants, climbed onto his couch and fallen asleep.

The scars on his chest and stomach had been on full display.

And he was bound to get cold without any kind of comforter. So America had dug out a blanket he hadn't used in months and made sure England was well covered up.

That had been a little over a day and a half ago.

Walking on tiptoe and making sure to be as noiseless as possible, the taller man approached the occupied couch and sat down, unable to tear his gaze away from the slumbering nation.

England took a deep breath and sighed heavily, rolling over onto his side and clutching his precious cushion as though it were a teddy bear.

He had to look. America had to see them again, just as a reminder of just how badly he had failed. He reached forward and carefully pulled the blanket back, away from Iggy's upper body.

Fifteen sets of letters.

Each one more messy and clumsy and needlessly large than the last.

And he had been forced to watch every single one as it was carved into the smaller man's body.

For the rest of the time in that horrible place, they had mostly been left to their own devices, but both were afraid that the door would open and spell nothing but doom.

America pulled the blanket back over England's body. He didn't want him to get cold.

What if…

He was asleep, wasn't he? So he probably wouldn't notice if America…

…if America leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead.

Just like that.

The smaller man smelled of tea and biscuits and ever so faintly of rain. That scent that always comes on a rainy day. Must be a weather thing.

His hair was so soft.

America kissed him again. This time, it was on the lips.

* * *

There was a cat on his face.

Either that or Japan had contracted a new disease previously unknown to mankind. He could call it Purring Head Syndrome. Only it seemed that it applied to the rest of his body as well: his arms, legs, chest and stomach were all very hot and vibrating.

He didn't like it. It felt too cramped. All he had wanted was a lie down and maybe a quick nap in the Mediterranean sun. He tried to take a deep breath and hold it, which was his usual strategy for calming down if he started to panic, but he got a nose and mouth full of fur and cat smell and almost choked. Any second now he would-

-and he did. He started to hyperventilate, filling his lungs ever more with the stench of cat fur. No matter how much his lungs screamed for air, he was unable to provide it and his panic grew worse and worse with every passing second. Japan had only closed his eyes for a second and now- now- what?

He had come to this place for the wide open spaces, the lack of confinement and the fact that only with these two things would he be able to breathe properly. What was going on? What was happening? He didn't dare move for fear that his limbs would be crushed and his heart would stop and he would be forced to stop breathing-

-and then the heavy mass of fur was removed from his face, and he was able to breathe again.

"_Geiá sou_, Japan."

Greece sat down on the soft grass and started to affectionately scratch the ears of the cat he had removed from his friend's head.

Japan craned his head forward and saw that his entire body was covered in reclining felines. One by one, they started lazily climbing off his arms and legs and curled up next to the brown-haired nation, purring contentedly.

"_Konnichiwa_," he said in reply. "Thank you for removing your cat from my face, it was rather unsettling."

Greece smiled.

"Did you fall asleep?" he asked.

"Perhaps," said Japan as he stroked the one remaining cat on his lap. "I only closed my eyes for a moment and they were all over me."

"I noticed," Greece replied. "They seem to like you."

Japan looked him over. It had only been a few seconds since he had sat down, but already there were seven of the furry creatures on his legs, five on his upper body and two on his head. The man was a cat magnet!

"Not as much as they like you," he pointed out.

"What can I say?" asked Greece. "I have a thing for cats."

This was it. This was the kind of casual time wasting Japan had been missing. Lying here with the warm sun on his face, cool grass beneath his body, surrounded by the most adorable creatures in the world…

It was everything he could ever have wanted.

* * *

"I swear," Germany snarled, "if you do that _one more time_-"

"You said that the last fifteen times, _arschloch!_" Prussia pointed out, and into his phone he said "Want me to do it one more time?"

"_¡Sí, sí!_" yelled Spain. "A-and hold the phone good and close, I want Romano to hear it this time!"

"_Ja_, _ja_, I got it."

After making sure his brother was facing the stove, Prussia reached forward, holding the mobile phone at arm's length, and gently stroked up the length of his largest scar.

"-nnghnGHENnnen-" Germany groaned.

On the other end of the phone line, Spain and Romano burst out laughing.

"_¡Dios mío__!_" cried Spain.

"I don't think I've ever laughed so hard in my whole life!" Romano roared.

"I know, right?!" Prussia cackled. "I swear, if I knew _mein kleiner bruder_ made such hilarious noises when I touched his wounds, I'd have started doing this decades ago!"

"_Ja_, you should have," said Germany, stirring the boiling pot. "Maybe then you would have had a few scars of your own."

"Lighten up, you potato-sucking bastard!" shouted Romano, loud enough for the blonde to hear him quite clearly over the phone. "Hey Pinkeye, do it one more time, will you?"

"If you do, I cannot be held responsible for my actions," Germany warned.

Prussia chose to ignore these words of caution and reached forward again, finger growing ever closer to his younger brother's back-

"GeheHAH!"

This time was a little different. This time, along with the weird and admittedly hilarious noise which involuntarily pushed its way out of Germany's mouth, his leg flew upwards and hit the albino right in the joy department.

With the speed and grace of a falling building, Prussia keeled over and hit the ground, stiff as a board. His hands flew to his crotch and clutched it tightly as he curled up, the fallen phone next to his head and capturing every second of his agonised squeal.

Spain and Romano could clearly not contain their laughter at all.

Germany picked up the phone.

"Apologies," he said, "but _mein bruder_ is now a little occupied and will be unable to end this conversation." So he ended it for him and turned back to the stove.

"You cannot say that I did not warn you," he stated. "Did I not say that I could not be held responsible for my actions?"

Prussia looked up at him and squeaked.

"In any case," said Germany, "the wurst is done."

"Don't… talk to me… about wurst!" Prussia moaned.

Germany sighed. He turned off the stove and helped his brother to his feet.

"What's that for?" asked Prussia.

"A simple reason," said Germany. "You may be a _dummkopf_, but you are still my brother and you are the only one I shall ever have."

In an instant, the elder man's pain was suddenly forgotten and he wrapped the tall blonde in as tight an embrace as he could manage.

Germany couldn't help but hug in return.

* * *

Spain put the phone down, smiling like the idiot Romano knew he was.

"Did you hear that?" he asked. "You hear the noise he made? I bet you Germany hit him right in the _cojones_!"

"Ah, screw 'em both," Romano said dismissively. "Stupid potato bastard, corrupting my little brother. As if he wasn't frustrating enough already."

The Spaniard's smile only grew wider.

"Alright, what's wrong?" he asked. "Come on, talk to me."

"No."

"I'm here for you, Romano, talk to me!"

"No, shut up!"

"C'mon, say what's wrong already!"

"Shut up, you damn tomato bastard!"

He froze, stiff as a statue, as the enthusiastic Spain wrapped his arms around him.

"I'm here for you, Romano," he said. "Now tell me what's wrong."

"Only if you get your ass the hell off me."

Spain reluctantly sat down on the sofa next to the incensed Italian.

"Now what's wrong?" he asked.

Romano sighed.

"It's Veneziano," he confessed. "Ever since what happened in that damn dungeon, he's been really… I dunno, weird. He doesn't cry as much, he's pretty much stopped going around naked which is probably because it's harder for him to take his pants off, and he keeps writing letters every couple of weeks to that damn reaper brat! And that's not even the worst part!"

Spain's smile disappeared.

"What's the worst part?" he asked.

"He acts like it's nothing," Romano explained. "I mean… look, he saved my life. You know that, right? He saved me and all the others from that Atlantis bitch, but he pretends like it didn't change anything and I swear he does it deliberately just to rub it in that he was a hero and I wasn't! And the worst part is… is…"

He buried his face in his hand.

"I'll never be able to make it up to him," he stated simply. "He saved my life, Spain. And I'm supposed to be the BIG brother! I'm supposed to be the one looking out for him, but he saved me! How the hell am I gonna top _that?!_"

He tried to hide his face from the older nation, hoping he wouldn't see the tears beginning to trickle down his cheeks, and felt a sun-warmed hand comfortingly rubbing his back.

"Isn't it obvious?" asked Spain. "You don't!"

Romano rubbed his eyes dry and removed his face from his hands.

"What moron school did you go to again?" he demanded.

Spain chuckled at this remark.

"What I mean," he said, "is that you don't have to try and do stuff better than him. Just show him that you're grateful for what he did for you, okay?"

The younger nation hung his head and mumbled something incoherent.

"Hmm?"

"I said I guess you're right, bastard."

"_¡__Bueno!_" Spain cried happily. "Now, you wanna come help me pick some tomatoes for lunch?"

"_Si_," Romano replied, "I'll be out in a minute, alright?"

Spain smiled and walked out the door, unknowingly giving Romano exactly what he wanted:

An eyeful of… _dat ass._

* * *

"So how long should it take? The rehab, I mean."

The doctor sitting behind the desk looked over the reports he had received from the Verona hospital staff, clearly not trying to conceal his frown.

"Even taking into account your… _unique_ physical make-up," he said, "I would estimate a period of around ten months. Perhaps twelve at the very most."

His patient's eyes widened in shock.

"Please try to understand," he continued. "It's a miracle that you can even feel your toes after the injuries you sustained. In any other case I would propose amputation, but-"

"I'm not shocked because of that."

Italy's face split into a smile which was as adorable as it was cocky.

"You say ten or twelve months?" he asked. "Ve~ I'll do it in one!"

The doctor very nearly fell out of his chair at this declaration.

"W-What?" he stammered, and tried and failed to regain his composure. "B-But as I said, even a person of your kind would need a lengthy recovery period after such a traumatic experience, both mentally _and_ physically. That you have survived so long without a psychotic episode is nothing short of a miracle. If you refuse to receive counselling, the least you could do is allow yourself a sensible time frame for rehabilitation…"

He trailed off, staring in shock.

As he watched, Italy lifted his feet clear of the wheelchair and set them on the carpeted floor, making sure that they were spread far enough apart for some semblance of balance.

Then, using the desk for support, he stood up. The wheelchair rolled backwards and bumped uselessly against the wall.

Nothing moved for a moment. The doctor sat there, looking up at Italy, whose eyes were glinting with pride and triumph as he smiled.

"Ve~ Please don't tell me what I can and can't do," he said. "Because seriously, you have _no idea_ about the things I've done in my life. You know how America had his War of Independence? _Fratello_ and I had three. _You're welcome_. Ve~ so compared to something like that, Doctor, learning to walk again is nothing!"

It was true. Italy had been through so much in his life: he'd experienced hell in the past few months, so who was this guy to say when he'd be able to walk again?

As the doctor was reaching for his pen, the nation's legs failed him and he tumbled to the floor.

"Sir!" cried the doctor in shock. He called for assistance over the intercom.

Italy looked up at the blank ceiling.

Then he started to laugh. It was loud and cheerful and seemed to fill the whole room with an aura of happiness.

"Sir," said the doctor, "are you feeling alright?"

"_Si_, of course!" cried Italy. "Ve~ I'm sorry, it's just- I'm the stupidest person I know! I'm a complete and total idiot!"

He didn't stop laughing until after he was back in his wheelchair.


	11. Mail

"Has to resit the exam, has to resit the exam…"

"Patty, if I remember correctly, so do you," Kid pointed out.

"What the hell happened, Kid?" asked Liz. "I thought you'd have aced it!"

"Has to resit the exam, has to resit the exam…"

"I… may have had some trouble writing my name neatly enough," Kid confessed, blushing in embarrassment. "I just- I couldn't get the K right, okay?"

"Seriously?" Liz buried her face in her hand. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Has to resit the exam, has to resit the exam…"

"You're in no place to talk!" cried Kid. "You failed too, remember? Rather than studying, you chose to paint your nails and groom your eyebrows!"

"And what did you do?" asked Liz. "You spent all that time _designing_ my eyebrows!"

"Has to resit the exam, has to resit the exam…"

"I didn't expect it to take three days," Kid sighed, and with a smile he added, "Maybe I should have asked Italy do it for me."

"Oh, that reminds me!" Liz said, and she pulled an envelope out of her back pocket. "This came in the mail today. Says it's from Florence."

"Has to resit the exam, has to resit the exam…"

Kid took the envelope with a smile, muttered a quick 'thank you' and ran to his bedroom.

"Has to resit the exam, has-"

"SHUT UP!"

"Sorry!"

* * *

Once he was seated on his bed, Kid tore the envelope open and pulled out the paper enclosed.

_Hello there, Kid! I'm so happy I could find time to write to you. I know it's only been a few days since I sent my last letter, but every time I get yours and wait for the next one, it feels like forever! But I've been busy lately because I started getting rehab for my legs and soon I'll be able to walk again! The doctor said it would take me at least a year or maybe less, but I promised him that I would be able to do it in a month. When I told Germany he told me that I was being reckless, but I know that he's just concerned about me. He wants me to get better just as much as I do._

_Romano and I have been kinda distant ever since I got out of hospital. He doesn't hit me or strangle me as much as he used to and he's started treating me all different. M__aybe he's trying to make it up to me for saving his life by not being so mean and I wish I could make him see that he didn't have to do that. All I want is for him to be himself because he's my big brother and I love him! I wish we could be as close as Germany is to Prussia: they've been stuck to each other ever since the Black Forest._

_I tried to call Japan the other day, but it turns out he's visiting Greece because he's got __a fear of small places because of being locked up and everything in his home was scaring him because it was so small. I'm kinda jealous because Greece has loads of cute kitties and I can't take any home with me. And I found out England's been staying with America because he's been having trouble sleeping (maybe you could go visit them in Washington!) and you remember Big Brother France, right? How he needs to walk with a crutch now? When I called him the other day, he told me he might never be able to walk properly again and I feel really sorry for him. You think maybe you could give him some special reaper healing powers or something? I feel really sorry for him._

_I won't say what China and Russia have started doing lately because America says something about it being 'NSFW'. Do you know what that means?_

_Speaking of which (I don't know why this reminded me) Germany's being acting kinda strange lately. Whenever I see him, he's been blushing more than ever and behaving really sweet and nice. Prussia's teasing him about it and I don't understand why and he keeps saying something like 'er liebt dich, Italien' whenever he sees the two of us together. I don't know what it means, but it always makes Germany kinda mad. I don't want anybody else to tell me what it means though because I know Germany will tell me when he feels ready._

_I miss you, you know. I really want to come to Death City and visit my big brother again._

_That's all I have time for right now because it's my turn to make dinner and Romano's shouting about tomatoes again. See you soon (hopefully)! And let me know how school is going, okay?_

_Your honorary little brother_

_Italy Veneziano_

_PS: School is going okay, isn't it? You're not getting bullied or anything, are you? Please don't say you're being bullied!_

* * *

Kid read the letter several times over.

He always enjoyed receiving post from Italy. He was glad to know that he and the other nations were recovering from the Atlantis Incident, especially now that Italy would soon be walking again (according to the letter, anyway). He still had a few concerns though.

He pulled out a sheath of paper and a pen and started to write.

* * *

_Italy, in answer to your latest query, I am happy to inform you that I am not being bullied at school. This may have something to do with my status as the Grim Reaper's son, or maybe the fact that I was unfortunate enough to gain the friendship of an insufferable idiot such as Black*Star (and yes, the star is mandatory). I think the only reason he respects me is because I kicked his ass from here to eternity and am the first person to achieve such a feat in the history of the DWMA. It was easy. He's too much of a show-off for his own good. Him and his best friend, that Soul Eater character: Soul is friendly enough, but he doesn't really seem to know what's good for him either._

_Don't worry about your relationship with Germany. I'm sure that if what's bothering him about you is serious enough, he'll tell you what it is and reconcile with you in no time. I'm not too familiar with him, but I know enough about human nature to provide you with advice which I hope can be of some help. As for your brother, my guess is that he's feeling guilty that while you saved his life and several other nations, he may never accomplish anything on the same level. You should just let him know that you love him and care about him. He is your elder brother, after all._

_I'm glad to hear that the other nations are recovering from the Atlantis Incident. I wouldn't be surprised if they had developed psychological issues such as claustrophobia or an inferiority complex (I'm not entirely sure if insomnia counts as a psychological issue) depending on how they experienced the imprisonment. I noticed that in your portrait of China he bore a ponytail, but when I saw him in that place his hair was almost shorter than yours is, so I can only assume that it was cut off against his will. It's unfortunate that France is unable to walk without assistance, but like you I'm sure that he'll find a way to adjust. I should think that as the anthropomorphic personification of a country, you would have to very versatile and adaptable._

_I must admit that I am a little concerned about the way you are pushing yourself. If the doctors recommend a rehabilitation period of around a year, then I confess that I have to agree with their professional opinion. Trying to condense 365-or-so days' worth of relearning how to walk into only 30 or so is just foolish, even for a person of your unique physical structure. I say 'relearning how to walk' but really you're just restrengthening your legs to the point where you no longer need crutches or a wheelchair, are you not? Don't think for a moment that I don't want this to happen, however. It would warm my heart to see you walking again and I only wish that I could have prevented you from getting injured. I know the girls feel the same way._

_I miss you too._

_Your honorary elder brother,_

_Death the Kid._

* * *

Yes. That would do nicely.

He folded the paper into eight perfectly even sections and sealed it inside a nearby waiting envelope.


	12. Exposed

"_Buon giorno_, Germany!"

"_Guten morgen_, Italy. Shall I bother asking how you got into my bed?"

"Ve~ it's simple," said Italy matter-of-factly. "I got lonely because Romano's spending all his time with Spain and I wanted to come visit you because I like you, Germany."

Germany smiled.

"I like you too," he said bashfully.

As Italy was getting out of bed, the tall blonde noticed that something was missing.

"Italy," he said, "where is your wheelchair?"

"Ah, that?" Italy said. "Ve~ I don't need it anymore. I started the rehab and I'm doing really well. I only need crutches now!"

There had indeed been a pair leaning against the side of the bed. Italy slipped them on and pulled himself to his feet.

"I can walk again, see?"

Germany got up and pulled him into a hug.

"I see," he said, "and I am very proud of you."

Italy was happy to return the embrace.

They made their way downstairs to get some breakfast, Italy smiling and chattering about his legs all the way.

"…and it still hurts sometimes, like when I wake up in the morning, and Kid's told me that I shouldn't try to get all better in just one month, but I know I can do it because ever since I met him I've been doing things I never even thought I was capable of and-"

"Italy, you're babbling."

"Oh! Sorry!"

They reached the kitchen.

"Italy," said Germany, "despite how it may appear, I am pleased that you could come to see me. There is something I have been meaning to tell you for quite some time."

Italy's face fell. He was worried.

"Ve~ what is it?" he asked. "Is something wrong? Are you okay? Are you sick?"

"_Nein_, I am not ill," said Germany. "Please brace yourself: this may come as rather a shock."

He closed his eyes in concentration, clutching his right arm just above the elbow, fingers twitching and his fist clenching and unclenching as…

There was a flash of light.

Italy jumped back in shock and almost fell over, staring at the change to his BFF's body.

He reached forward, fingers trembling slightly as he felt it, running his fingers along the shaft. It was long and smooth, but warm to the touch, not as he had expected it to be. He held it up to his face for closer inspection, feeling the head with his thumb. The blade was smooth and sharp and shone like the moon. Germany pushed his hand away and felt it himself, wincing a little as he accidentally pricked his fingertip on the needle-sharp point.

"Germany," Italy gasped, "this is _huge_."

"I know," Germany replied. "I didn't wish to tell you because I was uncertain how you would react."

They both stared at where the taller man's hand should have been.

"Germany," said Italy, trying his best to breathe, "you're a _weapon?!_"


End file.
